


I don't wanna fall away.

by LetsPlayRayvin



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Gore, Character Death(s), M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:26:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3697379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetsPlayRayvin/pseuds/LetsPlayRayvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world was ending, but Brendon didn't care. All he cared about was the liveliness in Dallon's clear, blue-gray eyes. All he cared about was seeing a bright smile on his face, seeing his dimples shining through on his beautiful face. The earth wasn't his world. The tall, lanky, perfect bassist was. </p><p>So everything really began crumbling when Dallon got bitten on a raid in town. As he got sicker and sicker, Brendon tried to treasure every moment they had left together. But how was he supposed to live without his precious baby boy?</p><p>Or, in which Dallon is bitten by a zombie during the apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I don't wanna fall away.

 

 

> _**  
> "Lay us down, we're in love."** _
> 
>  

The sweltering heat of the sun seemed to touch every inch of the earth that they could touch; it bubbled up off of the tarmac, the smell of the sticky, bubbling tar acrid and cloying. It hung heavily in the air, heatwaves thick with dust. The town they had come to reside in, at least temporarily, had once been dense with people and businesses. After the outbreak happened, those who were smart headed to CDCs, in hopes of a cure being found, maybe even being able to offer some help to the scientists themselves. And those who didn't, well, stayed behind. Most ended up wasting away from malnutrition, dehydration, but some were unlucky enough to become one of them.

If you were to encounter one of the zombies from behind, you might not even be able to tell that anything was wrong. They looked a little rigid in posture, tense, but any human could given the circumstances. The insurmountable ocean of stress often engulfed Brendon, or maybe Dallon, with the other able to pull them from its tides for just a while. Long enough for it to just be them. They could be found standing with joints locked just like the living dead. But once they heard you, it became very obvious that things with really, really wrong. They would turn towards you, and you'd see flesh practically melting off of their bones, discolored, rotting. Eyes were glazed over with cloudy irises, cataracts having developed sometime in the process of the illness following the bite and their death to the reanimation. With no sight to rely on, they depended on hearing and smell. Fresh blood, possibly just a slightly sharp, metallic note to the human nose, was like a flame in the darkness. They could shuffle towards the source before you knew it and be upon you, just because of something dumb like a scrape from a fall.

Or maybe you'd be caught with one zombie who couldn't rely solely on their nose. In this case, they'd let out a piercing, shrill squawk of a noise. Like a bat using their own sonar to locate things in the dark, with their failing vision, these zombies could use the sound waves alone to find their way. Someone caught alone with nowhere to duck behind, nowhere to hide, could only run for so long with a hoard of zombies behind them. The clicking of their loose jowls, their iron-strength jaws, was all that could be heard over the rushed breathing of the runners, their feet slapping against the pavement, their heartbeats hammering away in their eardrums..

The duo had only had to run for their lives one time. One raid, they got separated inside the abandoned church. It was far too much ground for the two to cover on their own, but still, they tried to tackle it by themselves. Looking back on it, Brendon admitted to himself, he should've stuck by Dallon's side. He should've never let the man slip into the darkness to try and grab some of the food donations that were stored away in the office. He never should've let him go. It hit him with the weight of the world, like a ton of bricks directly on his chest, when he heard the sounds of cans clattering to the ground after being dropped. A sharp inhalation was pulled between Dallon's thin, shell pink lips, filling his tight chest.

Then, he screamed.

Brendon had never heard the man scream before in his life. It was a sound that reverberated off of every one of his racing thoughts as he dropped everything and ran for his life towards the office. It was a sound that made his heart plummet down to his fucking ass and fall to the ground. It was bloodcurdling and hoarse, breathy from shock. It was everything bad a sound could be to him. He hopped over a toppled over pew, vaulting over it with his skinny legs like it was nothing. Rushing into the room, slamming against the wooden door that was barely ajar with his entire body weight, he didn't even register in his peripheral vision the sight of it smashing against the wall and being knocked off its hinges. All he saw was Dallon, Dallon, blood on his arm and zombies surrounding him like vultures circling their prey. They were approaching so quick, the younger man only had time enough to grab the thing closest to him as a weapon. A candelabra didn't seem like the most effective thing, but with a running start and enough force, bashing the undead's heads in with it was easy enough. He was careless as he swung, only listening for the smashing of the metallic fixture against their skulls. Their blood was thick, blackish-red and coagulated to a consistency like a thin jelly, like gelatin not quite set, or left out on the counter for a bit too long. It ran down his arms, smattered on his clothes and in a line across his face.

When the final zombie collapsed, Brendon shoved its body away into the rumpled, destroyed pile with the rest of them. They were like faithful guards, laying dead on their posts, having not the chance to have been laid to rest. They were all forced away from Dallon, away from his love. The aforementioned man appeared to be in a bit of shock, drawing shallow, weak breaths in rapidly. "No, no, no," the former whispered thickly, shaking his head as he dropped to his knees beside Dallon. He swallowed past the acidic bite of bile that permeated his back tastebuds. He wasn't going to puke, he wasn't going to be weak. Not now. Not when Dallon needed him. "No, this isn't happening. This isn't. Dal, we have to get you out of here."

Dallon raised his left arm, the sinewy tendons quivering under his pale skin. Flipping it around to show the underbelly of it, he flashed the mark of the sloppy rows of teeth that gouged into his skin had left behind. Scarlet lifeblood trickled from the bite, his flesh weeping from the break. Coughing, the sound rattling a bit in his throat, he choked out, "Bren, this isn't gonna end well."

"Shut up, shut up." Brendon hooked his arms underneath Dallon's armpits and hauled him up onto his bum, pulling him closer to his smaller frame. Removing his shirt, he used the garment to tie around the wound tightly, hoping to at least put a pause to the flow of blood rushing from the gaping hole in his arm. When he rose, he snaked an arm around his waist. Dallon smelled like death already; it was on his breath, progressively growing more and more ragged, smelling pungent, fetid. His lips were damp with a few markings of blood, likely from when he had fallen to the ground. Maybe he had bitten his lip to try and suppress noises of agony, maybe he had managed to nick his tongue when he'd fallen back.

 

"You can't j-just exist in denial until it's too late." Dallon's voice was a slur, a mess of missed syllables and blurred sentences becoming just one mass of letters. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and Brendon reached out to brush the back of his free hand across it, sweeping the damp, dark tendrils of hair away from his face. He continued to try to speak until the younger man shushed him, pressing quivering lips to his bloodied ones so he was physically incapable of speaking. Their mouths met with rough, chapped lips, the twang of blood hanging on both their tongues as they roamed around the pronounced curves of each other's lower lips.

 

"Shut up, Dallon," Brendon whispered into his lover's mouth. "Please. And let me take you somewhere safe."

 

"Take me."

 

"I'm taking you. We're going."

 

"We're going."

 

They echoed each other, but it took them a while to actually move out of the church. Brendon hauled a bag of canned food behind him, slung over his left shoulder. Dallon was on his right, his other arm snaked around his waist. They hobbled together into the dying sunlight outside. The air was growing colder, and mosquitoes were buzzing, the drone of them dull, monotonous. But it was okay. They were together. That was all that mattered to them in that moment. They had each other, with Brendon's vice-like grip and Dallon's weakening body. They had each other. Until things really started going wrong. 

 

**Hour Four:**

 

It started with the growing discoloration of Dallon's left arm. Seeming to start about an hour after the bite, it looked like the very veins beneath his pale skin were infected. The spiderwebbing of them, dark brownish-purple, ran up and down his limb; they branched out into fainter colors of disease, warm toned pinks and reds. They'd managed to get inside a house and board it up, with the older of the duo collapsing onto the couch. He faded in and out of consciousness for the first few hours, so it barely registered for Brendon that the man had a fever after an absentminded caress of his stubbly cheek. Recoiling at the smidgen of increased heat radiating from Dallon's skin, he cursed under his breath, searching for a cloth, anything. Grabbing a washcloth that was poking out of his backpack, he dampened it with his water bottle. It was the last of his water, but he didn't care. He could find more. He could get more. He just needed to take care of Dallon first. He laid the towel over his forehead after pushing his sweaty hair away from his face. He didn't stir. He just stayed asleep.

 

**Hour Ten:**

 

The remnants of his last meal had long since evacuated Dallon's stomach. Blood swirled in the vomit pooled around his feet, his head lolling back against the couch. Brendon was at his side, cradling him the best he could. Arms were wound tightly around his numb, trembling body. The sky was entirely black outside, overcast; the stars couldn't even shine through the dark cover of clouds, nor the moon. Nothing could shine, and Brendon felt that it was the perfect representation of his world collapsing. His sun was dying. His planet was crumbling in his arms, covered in his own blood and puke and rusty colored spit trailing from the corner of his mouth. It was a stark difference, standing out against the bloodless pallor of his face. It was like his skin had been blanched, lacking all of the color that once made him look healthy. His undereye circles were like he'd dipped his thumbs in dark, aubergine colored ink and pressed the pads of them under his eyes. He was a mess and looked close to death. Already. "Give me more time," Brendon begged in a strained whisper, tears burning the corners of his chocolate eyes full of pain. They formed a massive lump on the back of his throat, one that made it hard to swallow, draw in a full breath. "Please, Dal. Don't leave me yet." 

 

**Hour Sixteen:**

 

After hours of struggling to draw a breath on his own, to move his limbs and sit up, Dallon slipped into unconsciousness. But it didn't look to be a restful kind of bliss. He stirred as best he could with his limited mobility, he whimpered brokenly in his sleep. His face wasn't smoothed by the wave of nonexistence. His brows were knitted tightly together over his closed eyes, the corners of his lips were forced downwards into the faintest of grimaces. He looked utterly pained. He was suffering still, and he wasn't even awake to voice his aches and pains. Or to try and do so, anyways. His words had begun to fail him within the last few hours of his consciousness, and Brendon could see the frustration in the man's cloudy eyes as he tried his best to form letters into words, words into sentences, and make it all coherent and cohesive.

 

Brendon laced his fingers behind his neck, ducking his head, tucking his chin to his chest. He was sat cross legged on the armrest of the couch closest to Dallon's head. The man was sleeping on a pillow formed with Brendon's last good sweater, but he didn't care. It was more important for Dallon to be comfortable than for him to be warm. His silver-plated revolver was in one hand, the handle pressed against the hot skin on the nape of his neck. The trigger was untouched, chambers full with six rounds of bullets. He couldn't find it in him to shoot. Not even after some of Dallon's last intelligible words had been "Don't let me turn."

 

It wasso easy to agree at the time, but now? He couldn't. He couldn't find it in him to place his index finger on the trigger and pull it. He couldn't watch bullets pierce through the love of his life's skull and embed themselves into his brain. 

 

He couldn't. 

 

So he didn't. 

 

Instead, he sang. His voice was raw, weak, tremulous as bitter crystalline tears tracked down his cheeks and dripped off his chin. But still, he sang as he loosened a hand from the back of his neck and ran it through Dallon's matted locks of hair. 

 

_Whether near or far_  
_I am always yours._  
_Any change in time_  
_We are young again._

_Lay us down, we're in love._

_Lay us down, we're in love._

__

 

**Hour Twenty:**

 

His heart couldn't keep up and keep sustaining life. His heart couldn't fight against the rampant virus running through his veins. 

 

Dallon died in the afternoon of the following day. And Brendon still didn't shoot him. He couldn't.

 

**Hour Twenty-Two:**

 

Brendon was just drifting off to sleep, finally, when Dallon jolted up on the couch. 

 

"SHIT!" he yelped, scrambling to raise himself up onto his feet. His heart was hammering away in his chest, against his breastbone, and felt like it was going to explode. He had to get away. But he had nowhere to go. 

 

Dallon groaned. The sound was animalistic, like nothing that he'd ever heard before from his throat. It was exactly like those outside. It was the sound of the zombies, it was the sound of the undead that wrecked their world and ruined lives. 

 

Dallon was one of them. 

 

Raising his gun with shaky hands, holding onto the handle tightly, knuckles white from the skin drawn taut over them, he yelled, "Don't come any closer!" He knew there was no point in yelling. Dallon couldn't hear him like he wanted him too. Dallon couldn't understand him. He wouldn't heed his warning. But still, he tried. " _Please. Stay back._ "

 

But even as Dallon kept shuffling stiffly forward, he couldn't pull the trigger. Not when the scent of his dead breath hit him like a wall, not when his cold hands enclosed around Brendon's arms. Not when his teeth dug into his shoulder and the shell of his love bit out a giant chunk of his skin. He could practically feel the infection set in as he finally managed to back up. 

 

He couldn't let Dallon be alone. He couldn't go on in the world without him. So, he felt somewhat justified in his actions as he slipped away into a room just off the living area, closing the door behind himself. Knees buckling, he let himself collide with the wall and slide down it. They could be together, undead in the ending world, until they just couldn't anymore. 

 

He promised Dallon a forever and always together a long, long time ago. And he'd go through with his promise. Even if it killed him, too. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was an unplanned mess. Thank you for sticking around.


End file.
